


bone boy

by wentzways



Category: Game Grumps, Internet Personalities, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Alternate Universe - No Game Grumps, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Loss of Grace, M/M, Minor Character Death, Relationship(s), Sad with a Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 07:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14443911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wentzways/pseuds/wentzways
Summary: brian is…  he is everything and anything. he is nothing. he is the whisper in a crowded room. he is the memorization of pie. he is time and space and the continuity of everything and yet- he is nothing at all. he just is. it takes Ross’s breath away. time spent with him feels like it is too fast, yet, not enough. he is exhilarating.but Ross is a flickering God, flickering in and out, from his travels, or because of the non-believers but that's ok. he'd rather be forgotten anyways.





	bone boy

**Author's Note:**

> this is a greek au i've been playing with for years um it's.....eh. idk if other's have done this bah anyway this took me two years to write it's my baby ok thanks for reading it also thanks to maddie as always bye

 

Silence. That's what Ross hears most days. His exile wasn't  _ extravagant _ . The stories conveyed it like it was. It was quiet and rushed and simple. There wasn't any yelling, there wasn't any thunder, Arin didn't do anything  _ showy _ like that, despite the reputation the mortals seemed to have of him. It filled with disapproval and silent  _ pleas _ , the silence, harsh stares of ones who once loved him, loved him until they were raw and open and friends with  _ death itself-  _ the harsh guilt of knowing that he had let people down. People who he lived to impress; people who he  _ loved _ . And although his home in the underworld was spacious- with the land stretched out for what seemed to be days, he couldn't help but feel irrevocably  _ alone _ . Isolation was his worst fear- the crippling anxiety that came from knowing you are utterly alone, with no one to care about you or tell you that you’re  _ worth a damn _ \- it bothered him. And you would think, since he was the God of the dead, all of the skeletons with their  _ skin and bones  _ made him feel at home.

 

But it didn't. It made it worse. Harrowingly worse.

 

He was fidgety. Ross was uncomfortable in his own “skin” (he couldn't lie, at night he would rip it off and cry, shaking and curling into himself, because he hated it, hated himself, hated everything and there was so much  _ blood, oh GODS, the blood it dripped down from his arms onto his hands and his fingers oh GODS OH GO- _ .) and none of the skeletons would talk to him. Why would they, if he was suppose to be scarier than Arin himself, now? Even the mere mention of Lord Death himself would make them quiver. With rage, with fear, it did not matter. 

 

Ross was alone. Utterly, unmistakable, alone. Consumed by his own isolation and his regret, he was forced to carry on. 

 

So he took to hobbies. Specifically, to visiting the souls in the Vale of Mourning. The God took to straying from his true duties from being the  “Undertaker”, the collector of Death, to  _ collecting things _ . Nothing like pennies, or stamps. Gods, no. He was, after all, nothing if not strange. Why would he conform to normal things like that? Nicknacks at first; tears, sweat, things that held the memories of people. The items, his memorabilia, would give him glimpses of mortal life. First kisses, first best friends, first  _ funerals _ . He longed to feel these things. But being the outcast God, nobody really  _ wanted  _ to love him. Who would? Ross was known to be “evil” and “terrifying.” In reality, he longed to be loved. 

 

So he took to his collecting. Sometimes they filled him for days, sometimes for mere minutes. 

 

His collection grew, small bottles of tears lined the room that he dedicated to his hoard. Sweat kept in the sweltering part of the room, locked in a huge closet with glass vials named with experiences. Depending on his mood, he would pull them out to feel something,  _ anything _ . 

 

It was his drug of choice. 

 

Just to feel what he once had (he alluded himself to think that he had lovers, nobody wanted the real him. they wanted the facade. it makes him wretch. he never had  _ anything _ .). Ross can't help but wonder if he can escape, try to head to the mortal world to take what he collects down to his home. He manages, occasionally. 

 

But the efforts take such a huge tole on him, he only does it when no new souls interest him. Which means he does it often. He's a flickering God, in and out, because of his travels, because of the non-believers but that's ok.

 

He'd rather be forgotten anyways. 

 

\---

 

There's a longing for the feel of anything. Or rather, to be able to feel and live the life he had always wanted. The  _ mortal life _ he wanted. He didn't know if it was possible for him to, but he took his chances anyways on a fateful day. His shaking hand, diluted like a pixel that was zoomed in on, reached out for the item, the broken and decaying thing that he so often saw at home, slender fingers slipping before curling over it with a soft triumphant noise. 

 

The God of the Dead collected his first ever bone, fresh with the life of a young man gone too soon.

 

He was a demigod, Ross could tell. The son of a minor God, Mark, the God of wine and events. His bones had the faint scent of red wine and decaying roses, an odd combination, but it was intoxicating to Ross. Better than the smell of flesh, at least. It was a feeling he could never describe, holding the bone. It gave him a power, the idea of latching onto another's life and living their memories. When he touched them, his eyes sparkled, if only for a moment, they could hold the life that used to live in them so animatedly. 

 

The deceased boy was lanky, an attractive blond with eyes that sparkled. Through his life, he resented his father, but he had a tenaciousness way to him that most didn't. It was this that Ross admired most about the boy. The boy had a beautiful laugh, eyes that glinted whenever he was up to no good. His memories felt pure, even the ones at this worst. His laugh, excited yelling of his friend’s name, It stuck with him, thousands of years after the boy had been long forgotten. The brief memories of a young man forever imposed, thrown away, scrapped to nothing for the afterlife. Ross knows the boy can choose elysium, not because of what he thought he did, but because of who he was. His heritage gave him a long imposed list of things he could do, and he did. He, along with his best friend, did things of ‘little to no importance’ impacting the lives of many. But it was thrown to waste, and his unrequited love for life had only earn him a spot in a ‘utopia’, which was not at all. He had no memory, nothing more than the mere bones that touched the frail, spindly hands of a broken God. 

 

Ross wanted to be forgotten.

 

Just like him. 

 

\---

 

There’s a man who he can sense wants to see him. But he’s fading, fading fast. There’s not much time left for him, and he can feel it. He can feel an ache in his bones, in his teeth, in his hair. It's a tiresome feeling, one that weighs him down. It weighs like a heavy chain, strapped to him, keeping him in his bed, from his job, from anything. And yet, he still travels, still collects the bones of the forgotten, of the lonely ones. The ones that shop late, spend early hours watering their plants like it's only 3 pm. Those were his favorites, because, like him, they had not chosen to be lonely.

 

Even so, Ross had still encountered those who could see. Who believed, and who knew what he did. They did not take lightly to him, in fact, he had a few even try to cheat him, cheat  _ death.  _ (He spat a handful of teeth and fresh blood onto his pillowcase, following the events. They’d grow back by morning, anyway.) By this time, he became the reaper himself. Face transparent, his bones jutting out, the hood hung low over him as he collected his victims. He took the name in stride, he even liked it. It gave him some purpose, gave him some more time. They believed in the Reaper, and all of the horrors that it came with, after all. 

 

\---

By what Ross thought was the end, all he wanted was to not became a  _ was,  _ but an  _ is.  _ Death  _ is  _ inevitable. Death  _ is _ peace. Death is  _ silent _ . 

 

_ Death is.  _

 

But he doesn't get that. He gets a man, in the shape of space and the universe and sky and  _ all that is knowledgeable.  _ He gets a burn in his chest, but he’s not sure if there's a heart there for him to  _ feel _ anymore. He can’t hurt this man like he’s been hurt, but he knows that it won’t be the man who will be hurt. 

 

\---

Brian is…  He is everything and anything. He is nothing. He is the whisper in a crowded room. He is the memorization of pie. He is time and space and the continuity of everything and yet- He is nothing at all. He just  _ is. _ It takes Ross’s breath away. Time spent with him feels like it is too fast, yet, not enough. He is exhilarating, like a drug for a  _ God _ (and not like his collections.) _.  _ He feels more within the short time he has with him than he has in a long, long time.

 

Hopelessly falling is easy when you’re starved for attention and it’s given in the form of a person who gives all too much all too soon. He knows that, and it keeps him up when he’s alone and all he has are his thought of the male while he’s back up in Olympus, where Ross is banned. Where Ross cannot keep his eye on him. Where he is free to do what he wants and say what he wants and- see people who are  _ deserving _ because the gaunty male who is too young and too old does  _ not _ deserve something so wonderful. 

 

It breaks him even more to know that soon Brian will be gone, a far memory that he will only get to hold to with the tips of his fingers and the dull ache of his soul. He knows he can’t keep him because he is too perfect and he is nothing of the sorts.

 

_ He shakes in his arms at night (night? day? time doesn’t exist for him. for  _ them _ ), sobbing, while Brian wordlessly holds him.  _

 

\---

Brian knows he shouldn’t be there. He should stay far away. But even wisdom has his weakness. 

 

Ross knew it; he knew it. It made every goodbye harder and harder. But Ross held on. Time for the God’s was not the same for mortals, and for even a few hours, it was mere minutes for mortals. Each time he left, it was harder and harder, but the boy made of bones with a heart pumping an almost empty body wasn’t ready to give in just yet. He was unsteady, yes, but Brian made him feel almost  _ stable  _ ( but you should never put that on a person, because you end up on the floor, shaking, sobbing, breathing far too shallowly for you body to stay alive, because you are  _ nothing without them- you’re useless, nobody loves you he DOESN’T LOVE YOU). _

 

He thinks, idly, one day, that he would die for Brian if he could. He thinks this as his fingers, slightly flushed from his attempts to change for this man, trail up his arm to cup his cheek, eyes making contact briefly before the other looks away. It’s almost painful to stare up at the man as he thoughtfully looks out at the vast land in front of the two men, and Ross can’t help but think of how much his heart aches, full of  _ want and need _ in that moment. 

 

But he also knows that- that Brian isn’t quite entirely there, in that moment- in that  _ feeling _ , like Ross is.

 

He knows this because he stops visiting as much, he’s distant, and there’s always an aura behind him. It’s dark and bleak and full of regret but the God of the Dead just can’t quite admit that he’s not ready to let go. He has a will to keep himself going now. There’s color to his once white skin, he’s not just a bag of bones, he’s gaining… life.  He’s not as self destructive and he’s..  _ kinder _ . But he knows it won’t last because he knows his only reason for it is leaving, and he will be down a friend, down a  _ lover,  _ with his heart ripped straight from his chest like it was every other time he let himself  _ feel a Gods-Damned fucking thing.  _ It’s horribly innocent in the eyes of any other God, because they don’t know what true love is.  _ Not like Ross does. Brian was just there to help him, after all, _ he thinks late at night when he’s alone, and he knows he shouldn’t be because he’s always  _ unstable _ . Ross falling for him just made it all the more easier. Now, he’s done his job, done what Arin sent him to do, and he has nothing left there for him except a boy who collects bones and cradles his glass-like body with no regards for his own health. 

 

And the God of Wisdom? He didn’t need to babysit anymore. 

 

On their final night together, they both know it. Brian can’t help but feel guilty, and heartbroken, because as much as he tried to hide it, he knew he had fallen for Ross too. This wasn’t a part of the plan. It was never a part of the  _ fucking plan.  _ He can’t stay. He knows he can’t stay, and that Ross will attempt to get better on his own from now on. 

 

Or, so he alludes himself into thinking. Even the smartest people could play naive to what they knew to be false.

 

Ross’s face was filled with pure hatred when he first saw Brian. No hiding, no fake smiles, or soft murmurs of promises that would be broken. “I hate you,” He sobbed out, collapsing into Brian’s arms. Silence escapes the other’s lips, his eyes closed tightly to prevent himself from crying. “Why would you do this? Let me-,” He gasps, “Trust you? Tell you things? Let me  _ love you, if you don’t love me  _ back,  _ asshole.”  _ With each question, he hit Brian’s chest, shaking, rocking. The other was silent.

 

He had nothing to say, ever. 

 

He always seemed to be quiet in moments that he needed to speak.

 

There’s only so much someone can do. Ross can’t force him to love him. Brian can’t be begged to stay. So they must move on. Travel on, through the galaxies, the planets, the countries, the states. Ross will continue to move forth and suffer as though he always did; With meaning, though. He knows there can be good to death. Brian showed him that. It was not all pain. It was comfort. The idea of a loved one no longer suffering. It was soft whispers of  _ goodbyes  _ and  _ see you soons,  _ and  _ I  _ love _ you.  _

 

He will continue to travel. 

 

He’s so utterly lonely. It’s a soft reminder after so long with another person who treated him as just- that. A person. He’s learning to cope with his loneliness, but he still has nights where he can’t breathe and everything is too much and he needs to-. 

 

Pause. 

 

He’s still lonely. He will never escape that. But he knows that he has had his heart broken in the loveliest way, 

 

There’s a subtle reminder left in his heart, broken- the wound left like a question.

 

‘ _ Will it ever heal?’   _ Ross asks himself in the silence, curled in his bed that feels far too big and far too cold to a man learning to feel again. The warmth of a hug brushes his arms, chest, the feeling of lips on his cheek, lets him know the Goddess of Love herself is there. Not really, of course, because only so few can visit while still alive, much less a Goddess or God, and they both know that Arin wouldn’t dare risk his wife leaving him (not now, not after what she did with th- it’s not important. Ross knows it's not his story to tell. Nor does he have the right to.).  Her kiss is soft, chaste, and it lets him know that he won’t heal. It’s her apology. She let this happen. She never stopped her husband, never even considered that Brian would do this. She never considered that Ross would- could, even, fall in love. There’s no apology that can fix what’s been done. They know that. 

 

Ross is left; Broken, alone. With nothing but his bones, scattered, skin decaying, a heart missing from its body. 

 

Ross is nothing but his skin and bones, but he is more than before.

 

It’s all he can ask for. 

**Author's Note:**

> i have others written out if this doesn't flop i'll post 'em


End file.
